


the ten seconds needed to think

by inquisitivepoetic



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, Slice of Life, kind of one sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitivepoetic/pseuds/inquisitivepoetic
Summary: "What's on your mind?" Akira asked him from behind the counter, just audible over the sound of coffee cups clinking in the sink.Yusuke could have told him any one of the myriad truths.(a short look into Yusuke's mind during a conversation with Akira)





	the ten seconds needed to think

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first thing I've written in a while. And the first persona thing I've ever written (which is a surprise)! This was meant to be a bit shorter but I still really like this. Un-beta'd and written in one afternoon as it was. I just had to write it because P5 is great and I will be maxing out Art Boy's confidant for sure. (I'm only just starting Kaneshiro's palace though oops)
> 
> Also the song playing in Akira's room is probably "The Way You'd Love Her" by Mac Demarco. Probably.

"What's on your mind?" Akira asked him from behind the counter, just audible over the sound of coffee cups clinking in the sink.

Yusuke could have told him any one of the myriad truths.

He could have told him about his sleepless nights. Nights where he swears that if he closes his eyes and listens just hard enough, he can hear his heart pound in his ears just like it used to when he handed a painting over to his mentor, only to see it hung on the wall at the next exhibition under a name that wasn't his. Faint light from a streetlight streaming into his window, his canvas in the corner of the room treated to a sliver of light. Sometimes he swore that he heard Madarame climbing the rickety stairs, opening the door, lifting the canvas from its rightful place. The way he spent hours staring at his ceiling simply waiting, so unsure, so sleepless, so calm and so chaotic. The way he felt guilty for poisoning the shadows of his room and the silence that came with them. That difficult silence. The memory of a man who stole the beauty from silence by turning it into anticipation of the storm.

(He would possibly tell Akira about that later, but he probably knew by now. 1AM texts are hard to hide from unless you're already asleep.)

(Akira never was.)

He could have told him about the paintings he wanted to create. He could have said that every time he walked into Mementos, he didn't see darkness and train tracks. He saw lashings of crimson oil paints, blotchy slabs of grey and black, hazy looming charcoal, so alive as it stained his hands in his frenzy. And he didn't just see the paint, oh no. He saw the breathing passion, the hatred and longing born from that world in the cuts of silver along the floor. He often entertained the idea that he could hold a group of critics captive in a spiel about his nightmares and the human condition, about desire and disdain, yet know deep down that he was lying through his teeth. 

Sometimes, he wanted to paint his friends in action. (Friends - that word still felt somewhat foreign on his tongue.) He saw them in their element, masked but emotive, almost constantly. A dynamic composition of them all, contorting and moving with a violent rhythm, maybe in watercolours. Or, simply a shaded sketch. A difficult task, as they would all be drained by the time they found somewhere safe enough to stop, and there was no way to take a photo of them in action. He could still see it, though. Sometimes the idea of the piece was more pleasing to him than the actual picture. He was able to mould it into exactly what he wanted, but he could always undo mistakes. It was impermanent. Always changing. Transient like that other world. The object alluded him, the idea was in his grasp. That always made him smile, if bittersweet.

For a moment, he thought about telling Akira about what he though of him. How strange he was. He stared into space for minutes then came back as if nothing had happened. In those moments, his grey eyes glazed over but still kept that unreadable glint. That was it. His eyes. To be frank, they were unremarkable. Not exceptionally beautiful. That's what made them so interesting, though. You could never see what he was thinking, but there was always a hint of something behind them. Rage? Sadness? Whatever it was, as soon as Yusuke could place it, it was gone. 

Or maybe it was his hands? They were as quick as his wit and proficient. Yusuke caught himself watching them daily. Sometimes gloved in red, picking locks and clutching a knife. Sometimes bare, pouring a coffee and crafting tools for their next excursion.

(That was another thing: he was absolutely mad about his career as a thief. It was borderline obsessive, making its way into any conversation one way or another. Well, that must be what he sounded like when he talked about art.) 

He was strange. They were both strange, honestly. Yusuke and his inability to pick up on social queues, Akira and his inability to care much about them. When Yusuke walked into Leblanc in the evening, Sojiro just having left for home and the rain pelting on the windows. As soon as he stepped inside, he would be greeted by the smell of coffee and curry mixing together, something he became familiar with quickly. He could often hear music drifting down the stairs as the boy upstairs hummed along. 

When the music suddenly turned off, Yusuke always stifled his disappointment until he saw a mop of messy hair and a pair of black glasses hopping down the stairs, lazy smile on his face. As he would saunter past the artist, he was always astounded that he smelled even stronger of coffee than the shop itself. Yusuke would gaze up at "Sayuri" wistfully, before sitting on a barstool and paying attention to the glue that kept their whole strange group together. Sometimes Akira would waltz behind the counter and make Yusuke a cup of coffee, others they would sit together and talk. He could always sense that quiet stoicism was hiding something. Maybe something dark, or something light. He didn't want to force his friend to lay all his cards on the table, but sometimes he imagined it hurt to hold the silence on his shoulders for so long as the boy so often did.

Maybe, he wondered, Akira tasted like coffee too? And if he could find out, if he could draw his words to life and coax his throat into action with a kiss, would it comfort him to know that this boy had his own burdens, and wasn't as in control as he seemed? 

But that wasn't his priority. He was quite comfortable watching his hands work, imagining how he would look as a figure on a canvas. Not as the fighter he was taken as, or the thinker he could be, but as the lover he was when he allowed himself to hum away to music (thinking no-one could hear him in his happy place) and make coffee as the storm raged on outside and they were safe indoors. 

The lover who let him call at one in the morning when the weight of the silence got too much, and the only alternative was listening to his own heart act out his past with Madarame, even though that same lover was probably awake with the same fears of a different history. Who never judged him if he started to quietly cry.

The lover who was monochrome in public, but technicolour in private, with a soft soul and an obsessive mind and a tasteful pallete and a strange world view that made him feel at home. Who's laugh - when genuine - could launch a thousand ships and whose eyes could glint as much as they could withdraw. 

The lover who smelled smokey and acidic, could recite all the steps in a path through a palace backwards but could barely remember what he ate for breakfast if you asked, who could stay deadpan in the face of almost anything but could make your sides ache just by being himself, who looked both composed and a mess at the same time, who scraped up his hands or bruised himself and refused to let anyone take concern in him for some reason that he couldn't see, who was insufferable and difficult and hilarious and caring and bright and troubled and ridiculous and passionate and enigmatic and red and black and white-

and so, so lovely.

 

"Nothing. I was simply lost in inconsequential thought." Yusuke lied.

"Wanna divulge?" The lover dried his hands and leaned on the counter, almost touching the artist's hands. Almost. 

"Not really."

"That's fine by me."

The silence was liveable for now.

Maybe even beautiful.


End file.
